Shepherds Abiding (13 page)

“That’s it!” Andrew exclaimed.

“Bull’s-eye!” said his chief stippler.

Though white was definitely the color of choice for wings, he had found the white alone to be stark and cold, in need of subtlety. But he’d carried things too far; he had tried too hard to be subtle. He’d like to go back and glaze the wing again. . . .

He’d relished working on this particular figure, liking the way the missing wing gave the piece a whole other balance in his hands. He also loved the exquisite serenity of her countenance—he thought the maker had done a thumping good job.

The only thing was, he didn’t have time to turn back and fiddle with small details, he needed to keep moving forward. . . .

“Sweetheart?”

“Speak, Kavanagh!”

“I’m about to bust.”

He looked up. “Whatever for?”

“To know what you’re up to.” She tilted her head to one side and gazed at him, smiling. “You know I love surprises, but really, Timothy, I don’t think I can
make
it ’til Christmas.”

“Get over it, girl, you’ll gouge nothing out of me.”

“All that paint on the pants you stuck behind the boiler in the basement . . .”

“You’ve been snooping behind the boiler in the basement?”

“Yes, Father, I confess.”

“Aha.” He went back to his book.
Blast!

“And on your hands, of course.”

“What about my hands?” Didn’t he scrub them diligently to remove all traces?

“I can smell it, dear. Oil paint gets into the pores. You’re painting something!”

What could he say? “Curiosity killed the cat!”

When he walked Barnabas to the monument at nine o’clock, he saw the tree glittering in the window above the bookstore. Colored light spilled over the awning and reflected on the rain-wet pavement.

In the face of losing everything one hoped for, lighting a tree was an act of faith. Well done! he thought, pulling his hat down and his collar up.

He walked more briskly, glad to be alive on the hushed and lamplit street where every storefront gleamed with promise.

“ ‘And there were in that same country. . . ,’ ” said his mother.

“ ‘Shepherds abiding!’ ”

“Very good, dear. And where were they abiding?”

“ ‘In the field!’ ”

“And what were they doing?”

“ ‘Keeping watch o’er their flock by night!’ ”

“Yes!” said his mother, pleased. He liked pleasing his mother, for he loved her more than anything, even more than Peggy. He also liked saying “o’er” instead of “over.”

His mother had spent hours teaching him the story of Christ’s birth, and the images she instilled in him had been vivid and thrilling, like a kind of movie cast with a score of animals—the great camels plowing over the desert sands, the donkey on which the Virgin Mary probably rode with Joseph walking beside her, the sheep and cows and horses in the hay-scented stable. . . .

And then, to top it all off, there was the heavenly host.

When as a child he heard the passages from Luke read aloud, he had also, on two separate occasions, heard the proclamation delivered by a multitude of voices. Though Scripture said nothing about the proclamation being sung, he was convinced otherwise—in truth, the music had come to him in the region of his heart as well as his mind, and the sound of the great chorale had been beautiful beyond all imagining.

Of course, he wouldn’t have told anyone that he’d heard—as if in his own sky, above his own house—
Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men. . . .

He’d resigned himself even then to a simple fact:
there were things he could never share with another, granting the occasional exception of his mother, who, more than anyone, believed him to speak from a true heart.

Indeed, there was no denying he’d been an often lonely and wildly imaginative child, but he was glad of it; for many things that deserved to be believed, he had believed with all his might.

Here he was with his nose stuck in a book at six o’clock in the evening, under a bare bulb in the back room of the Oxford. He hadn’t meant this thing to devour his every waking moment. . . .

It was all the robes and undergarments that had him out on a limb. Now that he had eyes to see, there seemed to be a thousand folds needing light and shadow. All along, he’d been painting the clothing without light and shadow, knowing that something was wrong, but what?

Blast. What if he packed up the whole business and stored it in the attic until another time? But he knew the answer to that—there would never be another time.

Possibly all that was needed was a kind of smudge that followed the line of a fold—something darker than the garment, yet something simple.

With the book open beside him on the worktable, he mixed a daub of paint and, without thinking, put it on his thumb and worked the color along the left side of the fold of the angel’s robe, then retraced the line with his forefinger and gently smoothed away some of the color.

Ahhhh . . .

There!

Thank you, Lord. . . .

Done.

The pain had moved into the region of her heart and seemed lodged there like a stickpin.

In case the letter had gone astray, she had rewritten it from memory and sent it again, this time declaring it urgent that Mrs. Mallory respond as quickly as possible.

Mrs. Havner had said she could take her time about the apartment.

“You’ve been a fine tenant,” she said, “and for you,
I’ll forget the two weeks’ notice. Just let me know when you know.” Mrs. Havner had given her a little pan of warm gingerbread and a hug. She wanted to cling there on her landlady’s broad and cushioned shoulder, and weep like a child.

With the exception of what she would need until she moved, everything in the apartment was packed. After all, whether she moved only a few doors down the street or home to live with Louise, the packing must be done.

In truth, she was beginning to know it would be her mother’s old home, that this was what God must want for her. Anyone could see that if Mrs. Mallory were going to let her have the building, she would have been notified by now.

In the short months since she prayed that prayer with George Gaynor, she hadn’t yet found how to hold on to God’s peace. Sometimes, as she prayed, it would come to her like a bird flying in at the window; it would settle on her shoulder, and she would feel transported by relief and glad expectation. Then the anxiety would flood in, and the startled bird would fly away. . . .

But no matter what happened, Christmas sales were booming. She’d had the biggest order ever, from Olivia
Harper, and knew she could count on something sizable from Father Tim and Cynthia. . . .

The bell on the door jangled as four Mitford schoolteachers tumbled in, laughing, their cheeks glowing from the sharp, bright cold. She had opened an hour and a half early so they could shop before the last day of school began.

“Would you like a cup of hot cider?”

“Oh, yes!” said Miss Griggs of first grade. “We’d like that better than anything!”

Emily Townsend of third grade unwound the candy-striped muffler from her neck. “Your tree is really special. It kind of gives me . . .
goose bumps
when Charlie and I ride by at night. It seems so . . .
consoling,
somehow. . . . I don’t know how to express it—Sharon is the one who loves English! Oh, and here are some cookies I made. I hope you like pecans, we cracked them ourselves—can you
believe
it, they are
so
hard to pick out of the shell!”

“Oh, my!” said Hope, admiring the large cookies.

Miss Wilson, also of third grade, removed her red earmuffs. “We
all
love the tree in your upstairs window, it’s very
cheering.
”

“Thank you!” Hope realized she felt considerably cheered herself.

“Is it true you’re going to have story time all summer?”

A heavy weight came upon her heart. What could she say? “That,” she managed, “is my fondest desire.” Please, God, she thought.

He arrived at the Oxford a few minutes before Andrew or Fred and, having his own key, let himself into the darkened room that smelled of beeswax and old wood.

He’d always loved the scent of the Oxford, but had grown fonder still of its rich and varied odors. Even the smell of the oil-based materials used for the figures had become welcome and familiar, quickening his senses as ink must do for someone in the printing trade.